


love will come and find me again

by starblessed



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Pain, Post-Betrayal, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: Betrayed and rejected by her husband, Novella Foscari returns to Venice in disgrace...  but she is not alone. Is it possible to rebuild a life after it has already fallen to pieces?Because Novella deserves an epilogue, not a footnote.





	love will come and find me again

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Tumblr prompt, for [Aki_of_Eyluvial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aki_of_Eyluvial/pseuds/Aki_of_Eyluvial)! My tumblr is [roseluminated](http://roseluminated.tumblr.com/), and I'm currently accepting Medici prompts!
> 
> So, trying to string together a coherent timeline with Medici is like trying to assemble a car with superglue. Historically, Novella and Francesco had five kids (triplets actually oh man) within three years, the last one that we know of in 1467, so they were together for at least four years... and historically, Volterra happened in ‘72, and so did Piero’s birth. Going by show timeline, Francesco kicks Novella out in ‘73... which is soooo not historically accurate. But if the show can bend history like a rubber band, so can the fandom. No triplets. Not for this story, at least.
> 
> So, for the sake of coherency, this story begins in 1473 and ends in 1478.

By the time she reaches Venice, she can only go forward. There is no point, no hope of going back. Her bags have all been sent away, her dresses and journals meticulously packed by servants without even the guidance of her say-so. _This_ is the delight of exile; this is the sting, the awful, searing agony of being cast out without so much as a goodbye. This is her future, alone.

Novella has few explanations to offer her parents with her return. Her father is understandably furious. He rides to Florence the next morning, to spit his rage at Francesco’s feet — or at Lorenzo, or Jacopo Pazzi, whomever bears the true blame for this sin. Even so far removed from the city, Novella is not able to say. Francesco threw her out. She may stew over that for weeks on end (and _she does,_ she does, wondering how a man could swear his love to you in the night and kick you out by morning)... but Jacopo surely manipulated him, and Lorenzo may have done the same.

Novella knew why her father brought her to Florence, of course. From the moment their invitation arrived, its intent was plain. She was not a wedding guest, but a political chess piece; she was brought there to form a union. When plans with Giuliano de Medici fell through, she was pleased to land in Francesco Pazzi’s arms... thrilled, in fact. She wouldn’t have had it any other way, if the choice had been hers, which it wasn’t. Francesco intrigued her. He seemed... so _kind._

More the fool she was, for believing in his gentle soul, for being so sure she could draw it out with just a bit of work. Look at where it’s left her... look at where she is.

As her father’s carriage kicks up dust, setting off on the road for Florence, Novella does not bother entertaining hope. She has shed her preference for brightly-colored gowns in exchange black, as if in mourning. A dark veil hangs over her head. She eats little, responds to even less, and for most of that morning remains lost in her own world.

Nightfall is a different beast. Lying in her bed with one hand over her stomach, staring blankly up at the ceiling, reality hits at last. Her eyes fill with tears; she laughs once, short and hysterical, before it devolves into a gasp. One hand clamps over her mouth, snatching it up.

She meant to tell him, all along. A part of her believed he _knew..._ after all, their marriage was certainly a political union, though one formed with mutual attraction. That he could believe her a puppet of Lorenzo de Medici, that his wills and affections could prove so capricious...

And he calls _her_ the traitor. _Hah._

Once the tears come, they do not stop... but Novella will not allow anyone to see her break. Only the night bears witness to her silent agony, whimpers and sobs swallowed up by the dark. She runs at her eyes until they are raw, bites at her lips until they bleed. The darkness holds no mercy, and no hope of easy answers.

_She meant to tell him._

In fact, she planned to tell him that very night. She waited until she was sure, until she could say for certain what her intuition already told her…

Novella is sick the next morning, and remains so for several weeks on. By the time her parents finally summon a doctor, fearing for their daughter’s “despairing condition”, he can only confirm what Novella already knows.

She sends a letter to Francesco the day his son is born, and receives no reply.

* * *

Vieri has his father’s eyes, dark and narrow, as if he is always suspicious of some unseen enemy. He inherits Novella’s round face and open manner; in fact, there is more of her in her son’s heart than his father, in all respects. She wonders is this is down to the child’s upbringing. Francesco’s blood might flow in his veins, and the child may bear the name Pazzi, but Vieri is nothing like his father at all. Only in the eyes, those familiar eyes, and in the way his smile sometimes cuts like a knife across his face.

She cannot decide if this is a blessing or a curse. She is not reminded of her lost love every time she looks at her son… but occasionally, he will do something _familiar,_ and her heart seizes in her chest.

Francesco sends money every few months, but he never requests a meeting with his son. Novella writes letters — dozens, hundreds, filling them with every detail of their child, from the day of his birth to the dawn of his fifth birthday. If it is the last thing she does, Francesco will know his son. Perhaps he discards the letters unopened — after a few years, she has come to accept this as an inevitability — but the knowledge is, for one brief moment, in his hands.

In the meantime, she delights in her son. When Vieri says his first words, she throws a party. His first birthday is celebrated with more cake than anyone can eat. His growing gives her life. His enthusiasm brings her joy.

She smiles when Vieri comes to her, hands caked in dirt and face smudged, just as _his_ face was the day their engagement was settled. Novella pats her son on the head, whispers a teasing encouragement to him, and watches him scurry off again. He is full of energy, her little boy, a creature of fire and warmth… again, more like his mother than his father. (Though on the coldest nights, she remembers those old _passions._ The calloused hands which held her so firmly, the fervent mouth that caressed her neck… she alone knows that Francesco was not always carved from stone.)

There is no reason they could not travel, really. No matter how long they reside with Novella’s parents, Florence still calls to her. She made it her home for only a year, but the roots she put down remain planted; she misses the great city. More than anything, she misses the people left behind. She wants Vieri to know he has cousins in Bianca and Guglielmo’s children… but more than anything, she wants him to know he has a father. She did not dare travel in his early years, knowing how hard journeys can be on small children, but Vieri has grown strong and sturdy. (As if a child of Francesco Pazzi could ever be frail.) There is _no reason_ they could not return.

“How would you like to go on a trip?” she asks that night, while tucking Vieri into bed. “To travel away from Nonno and Nonna, somewhere we’ve never been before?”

The thought intrigues Vieri; it shows clearly on his unguarded face. “Where, Mama?”

Anywhere in the world,” she declares grandly. “How about… Scotland?”

Her boy’s dark eyes grow wide. “That’s a very long ways away.”

“Hmm. You’re right.” Novella pouts, pretending to consider, before her face brightens. “What about Florence? Would you like to visit Florence, _vita mia?”_

Something in Vieri’s face clears. Understanding dawns like early-morning sun, and it frightens Novella sometimes how clever her boy is, how deep his understanding goes… again, so _unlike_ his father.

“To see Papa?” he asks softly.

Novella hesitates. Vieri’s tiny hand comes up to seize her own, wrapping around her fingers and squeezing tight.

“Yes,” she sighs. “I would like for you to meet Papa.”

“Does Papa want to meet me?”

“He would be very happy to meet you,” Novella replies — though, in truth, she cannot know. Her mind so frequently drifts back to the man who held her close through quiet nights, his eyes soft as he whispered dreams of a family… but that Francesco (the one she loved) and the current Francesco (the one she left) sometimes seem like two different creatures.

“Anyone would be happy to meet you, love,” she assures her son, forcing her worries away. “Your father will _love you_ the moment he lays eyes on you.”

Of course, this is hardly a reassurance. Novella can only hold her breath… and pray that she is right. When she looks upon her child’s sleeping face, however, she sees more of Francesco in him that ever. The affection in her heart swells until she is breathless. How could anyone not love her son?

That night, she pulls out her trunk and begins packing for Florence.

* * *

Mass the next morning is nothing but ordinary — filled with distracted prayers, between trying to get Vieri to stop fidgeting in his best clothes — until they are interrupted by bells rolling throughout the city.

A ripple of confusion passes through the congregation. The bells would not toll unless something were happening; but the streets of Venice are quiet, no crisis wracking the banks or houses. No army stands outside the gates; the plague has not returned. People file out of church and mill amongst each other, bustling through the confusion.

A whisper begins to spread through the streets. _Not here, but in Florence — the city is in chaos. The Medici have survived an assassination attempt. The perpetrators have been slain._

Novella’s father grabs her arm and begins pulling her, hard, towards their carriage. Novella still strand for any information she can overhear, protesting against her father's hurry… but he will not have it. Vieri is loaded in beside her, and they take off through the crowded streets.

“I don’t understand,” Novella exclaims, worry for her old friends consuming her. “Who would do such a thing?” The Medicis have enemies, but… in _church?_ Under the eyes of God? It is inconceivable.

On the other side of the carriage, her mother is pale and tight-lipped. Her father’s face has settled into a concrete mask.

Novella’s heart stutters, sinking lower and lower with every second of awful silence that passes. It settles in the pit of her stomach. She breathes deeply around the new hollow in her chest.

“What is it? Tell me.”

Her mother lowers her head, but her father has the fortitude to reply. His voice is hard, his face is blank, but she can see the anger in his eyes; it is not directed at her.

“The Pazzi Family organized the attack, Novella. Word has it, the attackers have already been condemned and put to death.”

Realization hits her like an arrow to the heart.

“It wasn’t,” she says softly.

“It was,” her father insists. “Francesco Pazzi —“

Her husband. Her husband is a murderer, and he is dead, and Novella’s world spins around her. The carriage reels; her father’s words fade into rolls of thunder overhead. She hears the echo of Francesco’s voice, sees his smile after she kissed him, feels his hands —

“He is not.” As the words leave her lips, she is not conscious of speaking them, nor does she have any control over them as they come out. “He is not dead, he would never do this, _not him,_ he is not —“

Her father says her name. Novella cannot hear it. Her mother closes her eyes. She is incapable of doing the same. Her heart has left her stomach, now threatening to leap up her throat, and she cannot take a breath past it. _He can’t be, he can’t, it is impossible, not the man she knows —_

“Mama?”

Vieri’s voice is a bucket of cool water over a feverish head. The world goes still once more. Novella freezes with it. Slowly, her gaze turns down on her son; he gazes back up at her with wide, uncomprehending eyes. He does not understand this, but he sees her tears, grips her trembling hands, and yearns to do something to help.

He looks more like his father than ever.

“My God,” Novella whispers, then pulls her son to her chest. A desperate, urgent prayer is muttered into the crown of his head, as if she can exorcise all Pazzi blood from his veins.

Her son holds her until the carriage pulls up in front of the Foscari palazzo… and by then, Novella does not know how to let go of him.

* * *

A month later, with Florence still reeling in the wake of the Pazzi conspiracy, Novella and her son depart for Scotland.

Vieri grips her hand tight on the way into the carriage. As the countryside rolls by, he stares out the window as if desperate to reach out and seize hold, to take a small piece of Italy with him. It grieves Novella to her core to leave her homeland… but she can no longer stay.

There is no going back; they may only go forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh yes, Novella actually did end up going to Scotland (with her five kids, presumably) after the Pazzi conspiracy, where she married a Scottish man named Stewart and has three more children. She died there at the age of 80, in 1527. Did she ever return to Italy? I don't kn


End file.
